Lady in Waiting
by latbfan
Summary: Lorena reflects upon her life as she waits in a cabin in northern Louisiana for "him." Story is abandoned. My apologies to my readers.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I have to apologize in advance for starting new projects before completing other ones. So many stories, so little time... After seeing the magnificent Mariana Klaveno as Bill's Maker in "Sparks Fly Out," I wanted to know Lorena's story. Lorena was little more than a cardboard cutout in SVM, and we haven't seen much of her on True Blood, so I openly admit that we're possibly way off reservation here, but everyone has a beginning. We're following the little information from the blue-ray, that Lorena's mother was a lady in Empress Maria Theresa's court, and that Lorena was turned by a vampire Gypsy the night before she was to take her vows in the church.

This is a join effort by myself and nipsu. We'll specify who wrote which chapters. This one is mine... I hope you enjoy.

* * *

Lady in Waiting

The night air is eerily still as lightening flashes overhead and thunder rumbles off in the distance. I've never gotten used to the humidity here, how the moisture leaves everything sticky, the stench of mildew and mold overwhelming at times. But I do love the lushness of the vegetation. There are more varied shades of green than there are words to describe them, even if I only see them by moonlight. Nature is ever present here, reaching her tentacles towards that which is man-made, threatening always to reclaim what is hers. It's as good a place as any to wait for _him_.

I've been waiting my whole, long life. I've lost track of time since I left the safety of the palace and the damp stink of New Orleans for this cabin on the way to no where. Three years I've been alone waiting? Or maybe it's four now? Malcolm laughed at first when I told him of my plan, but when he realized I was serious, he took my hand and kissed my palm. "Oh, ma petite religieuse," he whispered. He's so seldom somber, but he kissed each cheek, his lips smooth and cool. "Don't do this. I've only just got you back." He kissed my forehead, my closed eyes. He licked the single blood tear that escaped and trailed down my cheek. "Please don't leave me again. You making yourself miserable will not bring him back from the dead." As much as I loved him, my brother in blood, he was not who I needed.

The Queen did not object, although she did warn me to use more discretion when I next made a Child. Her warning was unnecessarily – did I not go to ground in her palace for nearly a year after that disaster? But I merely bowed and thanked her for her kindness before setting off. I had a plan this time. There would not be another Micah, and I devised a test to find _him_. I knew he was out there somewhere, and I trusted that somehow fate would lead him to me.

As I learned long ago, a young female on her own attracts too much attention. Malcolm had always willingly played my brother, which left both us available for lovers if we felt inspired, but I didn't want him hovering. Malcolm bores easily, and a bored Malcolm is a dangerous thing. Instead, I chose an isolated place, surrounded by the wild beauty I love, and fortuitously, a war broke out. I am simply another woman waiting for her man to come home. That much of my cover story, at least, is true, and in the confusion of war, a person gone missing here and there arouses no suspicion: as many die from the diseases and fevers that constantly rage through the area as bullets.

I occasionally keep a pet around for a few days. Just before dawn, I drain enough blood so they spend the daylight hours in my bed, delirious and weak. Even if they did escape, they wouldn't make it very far. Once, a deserter who played the violin stayed for over a month. He was lovely and delicious, but in the end, like all the others, he was a disappointment. None of them ever pass my test, none are _him_, and I wait.

***

My earliest human memories, dimmed not only by the passage of time, but also because they were experienced by dull mortal senses, are waiting in the grand hall for my mother to arrive. Sister Therese would find me, usually with my nose in a book, and smile: "Lorena, your mother is coming!" She would dress me in my finest silk gown with heeled slippers on my feet, and she'd intricately arrange my dark hair. I would wait impatiently for my mother to arrive, my ears straining for the sound of her carriage, but more often than not, she didn't come.

I would vow to never speak to her again. I hated her. I hated her for leaving me in the convent, and I hated her for not coming. I hated her even more for my wanting to not hate her. The summer before I turned nine, Sister Therese found me hidden in the garden, my gown ruined with dirt and grass stains, my face streaked with tears.

"Don't cry, Lorena," she whispered as she took me into her arms. "Your mother's time is not her own. She doesn't come not because she doesn't love you, but because she is not her own person."

"But she promised," I wept. "She is supposed to be my mother."

"And she is," Sister Therese patiently explained. "But she is one of the Empress' ladies."

"She is one of the Emperor's whores," I spit out.

"Lorena!" Sister Therese held her hand to her chest and stared at me. "Where ever did you hear such a thing?" I didn't want to say that I'd overheard Lady Marie, who had been sent to the convent by her angry husband for her indiscretions. She had no desire for a life in the church, and she kept a steady correspondence with her allies at court as she waited for her sentence to be lifted.

"Listening to conversations not meant for your ears is not only unladylike and unkind," Sister Therese said after she realized I would not answer. "It is a sin. And Lady Marie should remember that gossiping is as well."

"Is it true?" I quietly asked. "Is the Emperor my father?"

Sister Therese bit her bottom lip and fingered her rosary beads. "We are all God's children," she finally said.

I stomped my foot impertinently. "Is he? Please tell me."

She shook her head. "I do not know. But it doesn't matter."

"How can that not matter?" I whispered.

"What matters," Sister said, "is that in this life, especially when the situation appears difficult or unjust, when all seems to be most lost, that we search for our Father's lessons. Have I ever told you how I came to this life?"

I shook my head, knowing that she knew full well she'd never confided that to me. Eager for the story, I wiped my cheeks with the backs of my hands.

"I am the youngest of eight daughters," Sister Therese began.

"Oh!" I sighed with envy. "Sisters…"

Sister nodded. "Yes, but my father squandered the family fortune on mistresses and at the gambling tables. There was not enough left for a dowry for me, and we were going to loose our estate.

"He found a husband for me, an older man without title, who'd made a great deal of money in the new world. This man wanted to be gentry, and my father needed his fortune. When I was twelve, my father informed me that I was to marry a man as old as he, and who I'd never met."

"How dreadful!" I exclaimed.

Sister smiled. "Perhaps is would not have been as bad as I imagined, but I was a willful girl. There was a boy in the nearby village who was apprenticed to our tailor, and I fancied him." Sister sighed and shook her head. "He was a wonderful boy, and I had my heart set on him. I stole away one night." Here she looked grimly at me, knowing that I often snuck out after dark to run in the nearby woods. "And went to his room above the shop. I told him of my father's plan, and I…" Sister blushed. "I gave him my virtue so that I would be spoiled for the man my father had chosen."

"Sister!" I gasped.

She nodded. "I told you I was willful," she smiled. "I thought my father would consent to my marrying the boy if he knew I was ruined. But he did not. He sent me here instead, and he had the boy sent away."

"Where did he go?"

"I do not know what became of him to this day. But do you see? There was a lesson, even though I was heartbroken. I was meant for this life, and I needed quite desperately to be humbled. Pride, I'm afraid, is still the sin I must fight most vigilantly."

"What lesson is there in my mother having me without a husband? In her leaving me here and lying to me?"

"The lesson," Sister Therese explained. "Is that one can only count on the Lord."

"That's not true," I said.

"Lorena!" Sister chided.

"I can count on myself, too. I will never lie."

"We all lie," Sister said. "Humans are weak, and we all sin." She stood up and pulled me gently to my feet. She wiped my eyes with her handkerchief and pressed me to her side, her simple black gown now soiled with my dirt. "Forgive, Lorena. You must forgive. Not only your mother, but also yourself. I know that it is difficult, but we must forgive as our Father forgives us." I solemnly nodded.

"You have been blessed with many gifts," Sister Therese continued. "You are so beautiful." Her hand gently stroked my dark hair. "You have a keen mind and a kind heart. And, most importantly, you have the freedom to choose your own life."

"What do you mean?"

"Your mother has told me herself that she will allow you to make your own choice," Sister said. "What a gift! When you're of age, you may go to court with her and, provided the Empress is pleased with you, and I have no doubt she will be, you'll be one of her ladies. Or, if you'd prefer, your mother will find you appropriate suitors to choose a husband. Your life is your own, Lorena." She pressed me tightly. "Do not take that for granted." I nodded, deep in thought at all she had said. "Come," she said. "Or we'll be late for dinner."

As soon as I saw my mother again, several months later, I immediately forgot that I was never speaking to her again. I forgot being hurt and angry and disappointed. My mother's visits were always very much the same. She would skip into the room, her rustling silk like an exotic flower, and she would crush me against her. She smelled always of lilies, and she would have some beautiful trinket for me that would make the sisters cluck their tongues in disapproval: sugared almonds in an ornate box, delicately embroidered handkerchiefs, jeweled clips for my hair, rings for my fingers.

"Tell me a secret," she would whisper as she clung to my hands. "Promise that you love me." She would smile and touch me and hug me at unexpected times during her brief visits. Her lips left warm kisses on my cheeks and my hair. "Tell me that you are mine."

***

These wild woods of Louisiana are nothing like the forests that surrounded the convent outside Vienna where I grew up. I didn't realize how young my mother was until my human life was over. She was still a girl, barely thirteen, when I was born. While I never found proof, it seems most likely that the Emperor was my father. History knows well of his many infidelities. I always meant to return to my mother and ask her, but, in that particular instance, I waited too long, putting off the journey until my mother was decaying in her grave.

I can't help but shudder as my mind drifts to my last night at the convent, the night before I was to take my vows. My mother was devastated when I told her I had no desire for a life at court. I wanted to stay at the convent with the only family I knew, the quiet stone corridors, the library full of books. I held her head in my lap as she wept, begging me to reconsider, but if I were to lose my will to anyone, it would be God, not the royal family.

Emilio's face, perfectly recollected after all these years, comes unbidden to mind, and I shake it away. For years, I was plagued with nightmares of his dark form materializing out of the darkness, just as I was returning to the tree I used to climb over the high stone wall, the moonlight glinting off of his fangs as he smiled at me. At first, when he appeared, I was arrogant enough to think he was an angel, sent to visit me before my marriage to the church. I'd never seen someone so frightening or so beautiful, all at the same time, with his long dark hair, crackling green eyes, and pale skin.

"I've waited for you," he whispered with a smile. "I first saw you several years ago, but you were just a little girl. There are rules…"

At the time, I had no understanding of what he meant. He wasn't a cruel Maker, but I felt no love for him. Despite Sister Therese's gentle lesson, I've never been able to forgive him. He must've loved some aspect of me, but I wasn't with him long enough to discover what exactly had drawn him to me, let alone to make him wait for me to grow up.

We traveled about the countryside for several years. Emilio, ever the Gypsy, had a show of sorts, where he used his vampiric powers to impress superstitious locals: slight of hand, levitation, glamour. One night, the crowd knew of the old myths. They saw him for what he was, and they came for us. I fled into the dark, and Emilio called for me to help him. He commanded me as my Maker, but they'd already wrapped him in silver, and his powers were too diminished to compel me.

I was miles away when they killed him, too far to hear, even with my sensitive ears, but I felt his death. We had shared blood. The blood always seeks to be united with its source, and I feel it still, nearly one hundred years later, my blood that died with him. Time has made the loss less noticeable. Just a few short years have even soothed Micah's death. But like what happened in Paris, the pain is always there. I carry it with me always, a pit held somewhere in the back of my throat, and I long for the one who will help bear it with me. Who, perhaps, will be able to make it disappear.

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Oh, ma petite religieuse = Oh, my little nun


	2. Chapter 2

Authors Note: by Nipsu

This is the second installment of _Lady in Waiting_, our story of Lorena's life, inspired by the wonderful performance by Mariana Klavano. The idea is for us to show readers glimpses of her life, and not necessarily in sequence. This chapter takes place in Paris during the French Revolution's so called Reign of Terror. As noted in the Blue-Ray DVD set on season one, Malcolm is a very young vampire during this period and Lorena, though older, is relatively young.

My thanks to HBO and Charlaine Harris; these characters are obviously not my own.

Enjoy!

***

I lifted the lid of the coffin and pulled myself slowly up. My sleeping apartment was in the basement of our townhouse, the door to which was locked and well protected. The internally locked coffin was really not necessary, but it gave me peace of mind. It was secure.

At this moment, peace of mind was not attainable. The fragments of that dream floated in my head, wispy and ethereal. The dark haired girl walking in a moonlit forest, joyful and expectant, the moon's glow glinting on her hair. It was the same dream, always the same dream, so beautiful until the girl is grabbed. No, I was not going to dwell on it. I would not think of it.

Only a few feet away, my dressing table and mirror waited for me, a white powdered wig sat on a wooden holder. While I rouged my lips and cheeks and painted on a beauty mark, I caught the sight of Malcolm in my mirror before I heard his approach.

"Lorena, darling," Malcolm purred, "I cannot decide what I am in the mood for tonight. The peasants are so plentiful, but so very malnourished; easy picking, of course, but I find that starvation gives the blood an austere taste, don't you think?"

"Yes," I noted, "you are right: thin blood. Please let us not go to the catacombs again and drain guillotine victims. I grow so bored with it; it is just too easy, isn't it?"

"No sport in it, my dear," he rolled his eyes.

"And all those corpulent nobles, filled with blood, well they all scampered across the border", I sighed, "but I suppose it is safer here. No one will notice yet another dead body in Paris these days. My dear, please help me with my petticoats."

"Of, course." Malcolm murmured as he went to work, "Look at this beautiful gold brocade dress. What do you say to a night at the opera? We might find suitable prey there. Robespierre has at least not shut down the opera. Now, my tastes, as you know, run more low brow. I like rough trade; they put up more of a fight. But, it strikes me that you need a little more culture in your diet. What do you say?"

Maxmilion Robespierre was the head of the infamous and ironically named Committee for Public Safety, more of a secret police force which abducted and killed anyone suspected of harboring thoughts of restoring the monarchy. He was a virtual dictator in Paris, and humans cowered in terror at the mention of his name.

"How thoughtful of you," I agreed as I checked my make-up in the mirror. My skin needed no ceruse to lighten it and I appreciated the simplicity of my toilette. "Yes, some culture might suit. Have the servants prepare the drawing room for entertainment."

With my gold brocade dress on, I positioned my wig and worked to color my eyebrows, concentrating all the while on the task at hand, tapping down anxious dread left over from the recurring dream. I had the sense of running away from an abyss, an infinite maw that followed me like a sinister shadow. No, I would think about it no more. As I worked on my face, concentration increasing, my thirst began to burn the back of my throat.

***

"You are a vision of loveliness, my dear," Malcolm exclaimed as our barouche clip-clopped over the Seine and toward the old palace housing the opera.

"You are too kind, Monsieur," I finally replied as I turned my head to him. He was kind to me, I acknowledged to myself. We were both orphans, brought together in the killing fields of the Revolution. We cobbled together a life of comradeship forged in blood.

The barouche entered a boulevard and I noticed the chestnut trees adorned in newly opened leaves. The fragrance of fruit blossoms filled the air, but that sweet scent mingled with the stench of human excrement and horse manure. These humans, with their crass bodily functions disgusted me. They were a vulgar and unrefined species.

"Do you plan to find someone at the opera, too?" I finally asked.

"I am not planning anything, my dear, and not counting on it, to be sure. Although," he paused, "a soft, artistic boy, someone delicate, might be fun. If not, I'll leave it to you and troll the Latin Quarter later tonight. After midnight, those rough, brawny sorts like to carouse the taverns. If worse comes to worse, the catacombs always have freshly dead. It always amazes me how much blood is in those guillotined bodies. Quite the mystery, isn't it? But, tonight is all about you, my dark haired beauty. You need to have your spirits lifted."

As the carriage turned the corner, moonlight flooded through the glass of the carriage, hitting my face as I stared out the window. A heaviness spiraled in me, pushing higher and higher until it rested on my heart. If I had been required to breathe, I do not know that I could have done so. Although I was relatively young, it felt like the weight of immortality battered me that evening, played with me, letting me feel its power.

To combat the heaviness, I retreated into a different plane of consciousness, an instinctual plane inhabited by the predator that I was. My senses heightened while my intellect retreated. I smelled, distinctly, the old leather seats of the barouche, heard the voices of the humans outside the old palace that housed the opera, and noted every pore on Malcolm's Gallic nose.

Even as the footman opened the door to the barouche, I heard the pounding of the horse's hooves approaching. In a fraction of a second, I calculated that the beast was racing to my position and I determined the angle of his approach and noted that I must move to the back of the carriage to avoid impact. The horse, a chestnut gelding of 16 hands, reared on his legs on the street side of the barouche. I quickly grabbed the footman and pulled him out of the way. The footman was saved mostly because of Malcolm's youth: the sight of free-flowing blood may have been too much for Malcolm's young instincts to resist.

I grabbed the loose reins of the gelding and stroked his soft nose and calmed him with a glance. He appeared as docile as though he were glamoured.

"Madame, pray, are you alright?" yelled a tall, dark haired man of about thirty as he ran toward me.

"It is Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle Boucher. And, as you see, I am fine." I replied calmly. My eyes drank in this stranger, a handsome man with an olive complexion set off by vivid green eyes. His features were fine, almost delicate for a man so tall and broad shouldered and he carried an expression of worry.

"Forgive me, Mademoiselle Boucher," the man replied, "I am Jacque Bourbeau, and this gelding belongs to me. My driver was fixing some problems with the horse's hitch to the carriage when he broke loose. I cannot adequately express my regret and I assure you that both the driver and the horse will be punished."

"Please, it is just an accident, Monsieur, and I hope that on one is punished in my name," I responded with forced innocence, if not irony. At that moment, Malcolm appeared at my side.

"Monsieur Bourbeau, please allow me to introduce you to Malcolm Boucher, my brother."

Both gentlemen performed a quick bow and Malcolm smiled.

"Monsieur, Boucher, if there is anything that I can do, anything at all to make up for this near tragedy which must have spoiled your evening, please know that I am at your service," the dark haired man pleaded.

"Why, Monsieur Bourbeau, how very generous," Malcolm's words were slick, "but as my sister has already pointed out, she is quite well. However, if you feel amends are necessary, we would be obliged if you would be our guest for dinner tomorrow evening. We have only lived in Paris but for a few years and do not have many acquaintances. It has been too long since we have entertained." Malcolm handed Bourbeau a finely engraved card with our address.

Bourbeau took the card, "of course, Monsieur, I am in your debt."

In truth, courtesy dictated that Bourbeau accept our invitation. He appeared to accept it with alacrity. Bourbeau bowed and, as he straightened, his eyes washed over my body until resting on my eyes before handing his horse to the hapless driver and melting into the crowd.

"Very clever, " I murmered, "to invite him to our house when he cannot refuse, and I do believe it is better for him to come tomorrow. So many people saw his horse almost trample me it would have been suspicious to feast on him tonight and have him disappear."

"Nonsense, darling," Malcolm said, "people disappear all the time in Paris these days. All the time. But, it is better to be safe. You give me no credit for brains, my dear. I may only be three years old, but between this life and my mortal one, I feel as though I have been around for centuries."

"Did you notice his scent?" I whispered as we entered the palace.

"How could I not?" He's not my type to be sure, but he smells delicious. Perhaps you want him for yourself, my pretty. I saw the way you looked at him and the way he looked at you."

"Don't be silly," I arched my brow.

"Me, silly?" No, no, no. It is merely an example of my selflessness and devotion," Malcolm exclaimed. "I know that you like to share, and it is much appreciated, but a man who looks like that, who smells like that, needs to savored all night long. I simply don't have the patience. I'd drain him dry in one sitting. You know what a pig I am."

I laughed. "You suffer from a great deal of insight into your nature."

We were able to purchase prized box seats to the right of the stage. Times were dangerous and not all mortals casually embarked on the business of being entertained. Our ability to spend unlimited quantities of money was well rewarded.

When we took our seats in the box, I looked down upon the gallery of warm blooded prey, oblivious to danger. I arranged the folds of my gold brocade, shifting to reveal decolletage that while not scandalous, was not strictly respectable, either. My eyes floated to my possible quarry, and I searched for an easy mark. For me, an easy mark meant an aging, gullible man, one with a prominent character flaw as to make him easy to manipulate. I preferred vain, overweight men of forty or so, for it was easy to lure such a man by flattery and get him to abandon common sense.

As my eyes drifted below, they were caught by a pair of green eyes that were frozen to my own. Surprisingly, I could not look away, but finally remembered that elegant young ladies of the day did not hold the gaze of a gentleman that intently. I looked down, feeling for all the world that, if I could blush, I would. If it were possible to feel both self-consciousness and giddiness at the same time, I believe that is what I felt.

The opera was "La Caverne", a drama involving the capture of a young girl in a forest, Seraphina was her name, by a group of cave dwelling brigands. She is rescued by courageous fighters. The forest fighters were a thinly veiled allusion to the Revolution, but the music was surprisingly good. Music had always been my refuge in my previous life and I found it had a calming effect in this life, too.

As the opera ended, Malcolm whispered, "at least we were not subjected to another opera on the battle of Toulon," his voice too soft for human hearing, "the Committee for Public Safety ruins art when they dictate content. Don't look now, just keep smiling, but Mr. tall, dark and gorgeous green eyes appears to be waiting for us."

My face was well practiced in concealing thoughts, and the news did not displease me.

"Monsieur, Mademoiselle," Bourbeau formally began, "may I trouble you by walking you to your carriage"

"Of course," Malcolm assented, "we would be delighted."

When the crowd thinned out, Bourbeau looked anxious and began, "I cannot, in good conscious, rest easy knowing that I may have placed you in danger."

Danger? The thought of his human placing me in danger was ridiculous, almost laughable. I managed to keep my composure and ask, "pardon, Monsieur, I do not understand your meaning."

He leaned close, his head down to my neck as he whispered, "tonight, at the opera, I observed a known spy for the Committee. He glanced my way, once too often. Should I accept your invitation for dinner, I fear bringing attention your way. It may not be safe for you should I be observed at your house."

His soft breath warmed my neck, and I sensed the presence of his lips. When he looked at me, I noted pain set deep into his eyes. The realization dawned: he is trying to protect me. This fragile, breakable human is trying to protect me, an immortal, from human harm. For a moment, my head swam in confusion and disbelief.

"You are very noble, sir," I choose my words carefully, "but I speak on my own behalf and presume to speak on behalf of my brother when I tell you this: if we allow terror to rule our lives, life looses its meaning."

"You are a woman who knows her own mind; it is refreshing," he said with a careful, yet compassionate look, "but, is there no way to persuade you otherwise, for your own good?"

"No, Monsieur," I responded, "you cannot pursuade me otherwise. We gladly assume the risk of enjoying your company."

Bourbeaeru sighed, and cast his green eyes toward the night sky, lost in thought.

"Monsieur," Malcolm softly spoke, "I do not ferar the Committee of Public Safety. If Robespierre himself walked through my door, my heart would not beat in fear."

Malcolm's voice carried with it not only authority, but also the ring of truth. And it was true: what was Robespierre to us? He was a blood filled human, without our strength, our speed, or cunning. He was mortal, easy to crush at will.

However, the effect of Malcolm's proclamations on Bourbeau was profound. I witnessed as his face shifted from defiance to acceptance to admiration. "Very, well," Bourbeau announced, "I shall be delighted to accept your invitation.

"It is settled, then, eight o'clock tomorrow evening," Malcolm concluded. With that, Bourbeau bowed and left.

When we were back in the carriage, Malcolm finally spoke, "Lorena?"

"Yes," I replied as I realized my name was spoken.

"Why did you not glamour that man into coming to dinner, or for that matter, being dinner?" His voice had that irritating quality as though he already knew the answer.

"I do not know," I replied. In truth, I did not know. Usually, my first reaction with any human is to glamour them, to bend their will to my own. It was as though I had forgot that he was mortal. A semi-panic ran through me and I quickly changed subjects. "Speaking of dinner, we are in need of ours. Oh, do tell driver to stop. Look, over there, at that whore. She will do just fine."

Malcolm pulled a velvet rope which activated a ball indicating that the driver should stop. He glanced at the girl: tall muscular and tough. She was just his kind, the kind that would put up a fight.

"Tell me," Malcolm's eyes glinted, "that you thought to bring some rope and a couple of instruments in that beaded bag of yours."

"I never leave home without them," I replied as the corners of my mouth turned upwards.

***

I awakened suddenly and unlatched the interior of the coffin. The evening seemed sweet and I felt anxious anticipation. We were to have company tonight.

After I rang for my maid, I heard her clomp downstairs; even glamour could not make her graceful and quiet.

"Gabrielle, you are to help me dress and fix my hair. No wig tonight, but my hair is to be piled high on my head. And, when you are finished, I want my upstairs room prepared and a fire lit," I mentally checked off tasks. "How does cook get on for dinner?"

"Very well," she quickly replied, "you are to have five courses, a main course of duck confit. You and master shall be given blood in your goblet, and the guest a fine Bordeaux."

"Oh, how I despise the smell of cooking in my house. Have cook air out the kitchen while the duck is prepared; he is to open all the windows."

My armoire contained many gowns and I fingered them all until I came across a soft, peach colored satin dress. I held it to my body and admired how the color complimented my white skin and dark hair. Yes, it was beautifully cut and would flatter my figure.

Gabrielle nodded when she saw the gown I choose and went to work. She helped me with the petticoats and corset, and laced me from behind. In spite of all my abilities, I could not properly dress myself, and it irritated.

When Gabrielle finished, I studied myself in a full length mirror pleased to note that I looked as good as possible this evening.

"You have really out done yourself, my dear," Malcolm's silent entrance again surprised me.

"Thank you. Do you think it is time for you to get dressed and play human?"

"Yes, of course. But, I don't mind telling you that eating human food is the most grotesque part of this whole charade. I do hope your little terriers are hungry. Make sure they are in the dining room."

***

When the servant announced Bourbeau's arrival, we sat in a drawing room decorated with blue and gold silk. A fire roared in the extremely large fireplace. It was important to keep our townhouse at a temperature appropriate for humans when entertaining, but the fire also warmed us should any human have accidental contact. All and all, we were used to all the steps necessary to keep up the charade.

The butler presented Monsieur Bourbeau with a fine goblet of Bordeaux and the formal pleasantries began. Malcolm provided a perfectly plausible story of us being the surviving children of wealth landed gentry near Strasbourg, moving to Paris following crop failure and famine. Bourbeau related his Parisian upbringing and the death of his wife and two children to an outbreak of influenza 18 months prior.

After we were seated for dinner, the butler interrupted us, bringing Malcolm a letter delivered by post just moments before. He opened the letter and immediately began reading.

"Please accept my sincere apologies," Malcolm stood up, "but I have urgent business that requires my immediate attention. I am to Strasbourg at once."

"Surely, brother," I offered, "your business can wait until after dinner. We cannot turn our guest away."

"This concerns our uncle, my dear, and I have not a moment to lose." Malcolm turned to Bourbeau, "Please stay and enjoy the meal which has been prepared in your honor. I understand it is unconventional to leave you unchaperoned with my sister, but, forgive me, in times such as these, I cannot bring myself to stand on convention." Malcolm gave a quick bow and left.

"You will stay, Monsieur," I entreated, "will you not?" Although grateful that Malcolm unselfishly left, I could not help but note he did so immediately before dinner was served. He did not have to eat. I dismissed the servant and turned to my guest.

"With your permission, I will stay," he replied.

"Thank, you. Monsieur Bourbeau, may I be so bold as to ask you a very personal question?"

"Of, course," he nodded.

"Forgive me, but this is a most bold question but my curiosity must be satisfied. As a preface, let me begin by telling you that I agree with the principles of the Revolution and the overthrow of the monarchy. If you are a Committee spy, I may lose my head, but, in truth, the current political climate is terrible. Robespierre is mad and consumed with power. However, I do not understand why the Committee would even glance in your way. Perhaps you could explain?"

He shook his head and laughed mirthlessly. "You may be the bravest women I have ever known. First, my horse nearly kills you and you react as though nothing happened, and now you say outloud those words that could have you killed." He looked at me, eyes filled with wonder.

"You did not answer my question," I said, trying to suppress a smile.

"Who knows why the Committee targets anyone?" he looked down, "they act upon rumor and innuendo. However, I suspect that they question my association with Phillipe Egalite."

""Phillipe Egalite, the late Duke of Orleans?" I asked. "Oh, do not be so surprised. I may be a woman, but I fully understand politics and the ways of the world, better than most men, I suspect." It was true. I did understand the whims of human politics, the way the world ran. I had to in order to survive. It was merely astonishing that I had admitted as much out loud, removing my carefully constructed human mask. It was unfashionable, perhaps vulgar, for a woman of this time to demonstrate her intelligence. "At any rate, it is my life, as you noted. I insist upon hearing of your connection with Egalite, the cousin of our infamous late King."

Bourbeau actually laughed, not put off by my lack of decorum. "You are not only beautiful and brave, you are obviously very clever," his lips formed a warm smile. "Very, well, It is a great relief, to tell the truth, to sit around and tell the truth."

It was my turn to smile at his word play. "Yes, I believe I understand the relief of not aways play acting."

"Your servants are trustworthy?" he asked.

"I would stake my life on it," I smiled, amused by my own word play.

"What do you know about Phillipe Egalite?", he asked, "for I imagine that I shall be surprised again."

"I know," I began, " that for a Duke of one of France's most influential and wealthy families, that his politics were decidedly liberal. I know that he fully supported the Revolution and afterwards took up the appellation 'Egalite' and gave up his title. He risked his own life on more than one occasion to save political enemies, yet he voted for the death of his own cousin, the King, the unfortunate Louis. When his son, the Duke of Chartre abandoned the cause of the Revolution, the entire house of Orleans fled France, save Phillipe. He was tried and guillotined last November. November 6, 1793, was it not?"

His green eyes stared at me in disbelief. "Then, Mademoiselle," he finally spoke," it is a wonder you did not know that I was the attorney who represented him at trial. 'Trial', might be too strong a word for that procedure."

"So," I said, "If I am to understand correctly, you represented an innocent man at a travesty of a trail and watched him get slaughtered for the sins of his son."

"You touch it exactly," he nodded, "but what you do not know about Phillipe is his most important quality: his bravery. He was brave following his capture, he was brave beyond reason during his trial, and braver yet facing his death. He died well." Bourbeau looked up and held my gaze. "It is the quality I admire most: bravery."

I waited a beat before asking, "how many others did you represent? Egalite, I suspect, was not the only one."

"Five others. All important citizens, all propertied and with money." he responded, "and all convicted on the whispers of those whose identities were concealed. It was all for show, you know, those trials. Their properties were confiscated, their families were ruined. Those without money do not even get a the privilege of a sham trail, they simply disappear."

"So, you risk your life to attempt to help those who cannot, in the end, be helped?" It seemed to me that the man was foolish, deliberately risking his own life on a lost cause, tilting at dangerous windmills. However, despite his disregard for survival, there was a noble selflessness in his actions.

"Yes," he chuckled, "I took an oath to defend those accused of crimes and it is an oath I still take seriously. Perhaps I am overly idealistic, but with each trial, I cannot help but hope, I cannot help but have some faith that justice will be done. At some point, this insanity must end. It has to end. I do not want to watch innocent people get slaughtered. If I can but save one of them, it is worth the risk."

"The Committee fears you because of Egalite," I noted, "the people know he is innocent. Everyone knows he is innocent. He lived for the Revolution, this man who could have been King, and perhaps should have been King. He freely gave up his title, risked his life for France and became a martyr. The Committee made their greatest mistake in executing Egalite and the people connect you with him. The Committee fears that the people would follow you, heart and soul, should you don the Counter-Revolutionary mantle."

Yes," he said simply. He suddenly looked weary. "And, if I have endangered your life by simply being here, I could never forgive myself."

Suddenly, I felt the impulse to reach out and touch his arm, to comfort this man who worried for me so. None of my predator instincts had made an appearance this evening. "Please, Monsieur, do not trouble yourself. My brother and I insisted upon your presence." My voice was gentle, and I realized that my mood was likewise. I felt mercy for this human and the realization made me weary, too.

"You have hardly touched your food," he observed.

"Yes," I smiled at the irony, "I seem to have lost my appetite, it is true. Let me get you some more wine, and by all means call me Lorena,"

"And you must call me Jacques," his eyes crinkled, "and since we have abandoned convention, I insist that you accompany me to the drawing room after dinner, Lorena, as your conversation has been more interesting than that of any man of my acquaintance."

When we entered the drawing room, I went straight to the fireplace to warm my hands. It was a left over habit from my human years and I did so without thinking. When I looked up, I saw that Jacques was by my side, resting his right shoulder on the mantle, facing me. How strange to feel this effortless companionship with a human. The sensation was as disconcerting as it was pleasurable.

"You grew up in Paris, then, Jacques?" I enquired, not for a need of small talk, but from genuine curiosity.

"Yes. I was born here and lived here all my life. It was a wonderful city. It still can be. My grandfather owned a farm near Avignon, in the South. I spent many summers with him and find I am most at peace in the country, with nature."

It was my turn to be surprised. "Yes, I find that my happiest days were spent in nature. The woods, I enjoyed taking a turn in the woods." My words bordered on sentimentality and I wondered why I had admitted the truth.

"Forgive me," he said, "but you do not strike me as a woman comfortable in nature. You seem too refined and sophisticated."

"I suppose you mean to compliment me," I spoke without thinking, "but you are mistaken. I would love nothing better than to tear this dress and these petticoats off and don some trousers and race through the forest. Preferably one filled with moonlight."

"You paint an appealing picture, one of a feral creature escaping the shackles of civilization. Are you the incarnation of Rousseau's noble savage? You are beauty, unbound," he laughed with genuine mirth.

"As long as we are defying convention," I changed subjects, "tell me Jacques, are you a man of the enlightenment? This is the kind of talk men have in drawing rooms after dinner, is it not?"

"Yes," he smiled, "to both questions. I particularly enjoy Voltaire. There is something very natural, even logical about the notion of all men possessing inherit value, without regard to rank. However, as long as we are being candid, speaking our truths...oh, I fear that someone as enlightened as you may laugh," he looked down and a dark lock of hair fell to the middle of his forehead. He shook his head and smiled and embarrassed smile.

"I promise I shall not," I said and I meant it. I had to know what he was thinking.

He did not look at me, and I sensed his hesitation, the struggle he had in bringing his words forth. "I am a Catholic," he said quietly, "and as unpopular as the Church is with Robespierre, as dangerous as it is to admit, I cannot quit my faith. I do not find my faith to be incompatible with the principles of the enlightenment. Now, you will laugh: when I was younger, it was my deepest desire to enter the priesthood. My middle class, bourgeois parents would not stand for it. They pushed me into the law."

He continued to look down, but when I did not respond, his head began to tilt up and search for my eyes. When his eyes met mine, unexpected desire gripped me. Without thought, I watched as my hand went to his face to brush aside that unruly lock of hair, and when my hand touched his forehead, the warmth burned my skin.

He moved closer to me, with clear desire sparkling in his eyes. For a moment, I could not think, my brain disconnected from rational thought. Instinctively, I moved toward him as he did to me, the both of us pulled together until his large arms enfolded me as his lips reached my own. As my lips touched his, and I explored his tongue, I gave myself over to a passion that consumed us both.

Jacques finally pulled away with obvious effort. With ragged breathing, he held my arms and looked at the floor. "Forgive me. Please," I must leave. Never," his eyes finally met my own, "have I behaved in such an ungentlemanly manner. If I stay one moment longer, I cannot vouch for my conduct." His eyes returned to the floor as if looking at my visage was painful

"Your leaving me here, alone, is the only unpardonable act you can commit. For that, I cannot forgive you." Although my tone was more gentle than accusatory, there was authority behind my words. I wanted to possess this man and I walked closer to him locking my eyes onto his own.

He grabbed my small hands in his large ones and held them to his chest and closed his eyes. He appeared, for all the world, to be harnessing strength by shutting out my image and he paused while gathering his thoughts.

"Lorena," he began, "I have never in my life wanted to stay anywhere as much as I want to stay with you at this moment. Since my wife died, I have not been with another woman. My wife, Angelique, was a good woman and I cared for her. When she passed, I sincerely mourned her death. But, Lorena, please understand: our marriage was arranged. Perhaps in time, our feelings would have grown to love, grown to passion, but they had not. What I feel right now, with you, is new to me." He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Passion consumes me now and if I stay I cannot fight it."

"Jacques," I managed to say, "do not fight what you and I both feel. How can you fight it? We should not fight this. Please stay," I said as I realized that I was on the verge of pleading. Why could I not bring myself to glamour him?

"Lorena," Jacques took a deep breath and let go of my hands, "how can I steal your maidenhead, right here under your brother's roof? I will bring shame to you, I will insult your brother who has been nothing but kind. It would be a selfish, unforgivable act, completely without decency or scruple. Your reputation would suffer and you would despise me."

And then I realized: he expected me to be a virgin. Although I had not felt panic since I was mortal, I immediately recognized the sensation. Fragments of that nightmare floated to my consciousness and I shook my head so that the images would not overwhelm me. Suddenly, I realized that I had dropped any pretense of my mask. I did not want to stop now. How is it possible that I wanted to be as truthful with this human as he had been with me? To be as honest as Jacques as I could without revealing the unforgivable secret, without earning his enmity and disgust seemed impossible.

"Jacques," I looked down, "do you remember the opera last night?"

"La Caverna? Of course," he responded.

"And what happens to our heroine?" I asked.

"Seraphina? Well, she is abducted by outlaws in the forest and taken to a cave," he said.

I looked at him knowingly.

"But all ends well. Seraphina is rescued by Don Alphonso, before she suffers, well, a terrible fate. Some would say a fate worse than death," he looked at me quizzically.

"Yes, a fate worse than death. Interesting choice of words," I reflected quietly. How could I go on? How could I summon the courage to speak those words I had never spoken?

Jacques looked concerned and moved closer to me as I fought to find the words I needed. His eyes were gentle and filled with concern: he suspected the truth, or at least part of the truth.

"You must understand, I was younger, and I was about to take orders."

He looked at me as though he were about to speak, but, closed his mouth and let me continue.

"The night before taking orders," I hesitated, "I was in a forest by the convent, by myself, and certainly without permission. I was grabbed and held against my will by a gypsy man." I looked up at him. "No, Don Alphonso came to my rescue." I opened my mouth to say more but found I could not. I could not talk, I could not move.

He came toward me, his hands rested on my shoulders as he leaned in, his hot breath on my neck. He rested his chin on top of my head, and sighed.

"I am so sorry, Lorena, so terribly sorry," he mumbled and I thought a heard a tear run down his face. "You are blameless. You are completely blameless. Oh, how you must have suffered," his voice trailed off.

His head turned toward mine and I soon felt his lips brush against my neck. Giving into my need, I turned my head to his and his lips crushed into my own, his acceptance paving the way to abandon. I looked into his eyes and felt as though I was looking at someone I had always known. Silently, I took him by the hand and guided him upstairs.

While I face the large fireplace, Jacques unlaced my petticoats, kissing my neck as I moaned. The large, canopied bed was only inches behind us. I turned around to find his lips and searched for the laces on his trousers, pressing his hardness against my hand.

My touch created urgency in Jacques. He tore off his trousers and shirt and lifted me in his arms and gently placed me on the bed, kissing my mouth, his tongue gently exploring. I let my hands run long his broad back and chest, appreciating the hard muscles beneath the soft, warm skin, reminding myself to be gentle with this fragile mortal. He took one breast , then the other, into his mouth, sucking gently, teasing me with his hot tongue.

His hands inched downward toward my belly and then down further still until his fingers touched the folds between my legs. He gently eased up off of me to part my legs. With slow fingers, he circled and tapped my nub until I gasped with pleasure and reached for his member. He smiled when I guided him inside me.

He was not in me a fraction of an inch before I groaned and lost myself in a wave of pleasure I had never before experienced. I closed my eyes in abandon as he teased me, slowly pushing an inch, slowly retreating until he was almost out of me. It was exquisite and the desire I felt burned. Time lost all meaning as the slow thrusting continued; he continued to explore, inch by inch, deeper with every thrust. Finally, when he reached the point of full penetration, the speed of his thrusting slowly increased, but only marginally. I was wild, riding the wave of pleasure, but noticed that his languid motion cost Jacques great effort.

Finally, we both screamed with the need for out release, and his thrusting grew urgent. With every thrust, I felt wave upon wave of pleasure until my body racked with spasm and transported me away. Jacques followed soon after and collapsed on me. Neither of us were capable of moving or speaking. I would not let him withdraw until the shuddering in my body ceased.

He finally pulled the duvet over me and wrapped his arms around my frame. "You are so cold, are not well?" he asked.

"I am perfectly well," I smiled, "just cold by nature. It is why the bed is next to the fire."

He kissed my forehead and turned to face me. "You are the most remarkable woman I have ever met, Lorena. Please do me the honor of meeting my sister tomorrow evening. Please. Say that you will come."

"I believe," I teased, "that I would do anything you asked of me this very moment."

"Hmmm," he mumbled, "anything? I must not let such an offer pass, my love. Tomorrow evening at 8:00 o'clock, then, you must meet the only other woman of consequence in my life, Jacqueline. We are twins. In the mean time," he said as he leaned over to kiss my lips, "I will do anything you ask of me. I am your slave. Use me, marry me, do with me as you will. You have me body and soul."

I rolled over to my side and looked at him, astounded by the beauty that graced every aspect of his being, his body and his mind. "Jacques," I said, not allowing my eyes off of his.

"Yes," he replied dully.

"You will remember everything but my bite," I said.

I fell on top of him, kissing his mouth, his neck until I made my way down to his hard, brown nipples, sucking and kissing until I felt him hard, beneath my thigh. I worked slowly down, kissing the downy dark hair of his belly until I took the length of him into my mouth, sucking long and hard, careful that my fangs did not click. Finally, I let go, touching his inner thigh until I felt a strong pulse. It was then that I bit, drinking deeply, savoring the sweet saltiness of his blood, intoxicated by his bouquet. Finally, I licked the wound clean to seal the area.

Our lovemaking was slower this time, our eyes were open, never taking our glance one another. The fever of the first encounter gave way to a soulful tenderness.

***

Trees cast black shadows in the silvery moonlight as I walked through the forest with a full heart. As I turned my head to my right, my silent partner grabbed my hand and let his fingers intertwine with my own. Jacques squeezed my hand with his own cool fingers and I realized that I could not hear his heartbeat. His lips moved and although no sound escaped, I could read his lips" "I love you," he mouthed.

His face lost focus as I struggled towards consciousness. When I opened my eyes and unlatched the coffin, I realized the man in my dreams was dead. Of course, I thought, of course. Why did I not think to turn him last night? I had never become a maker and had never thought to become one. Until now, my own turning... no, I would not think of that night. I knew he loved me, surely as I loved him. I was more sure of his love for me than any other fact in my existence. Almost any other fact: I was more sure of my love for him.

After ringing the bell for my maid, I fingered the gowns in my wardrobe and choose a dark grey silk that was suitably demure, lace covering the bodice going all the way to my throat. A simple emerald cut sapphire set in small diamonds hung on a gold chain around my throat. The effect was elegant yet respectable.

Malcolm yawned at the door as he took in the sight. I smiled despite myself, and he cocked his head to one side, curiously, brows furrowed."On the one hand, that dress is boring and far too proper. It hides your assets and the charcoal does nothing for you. But, you, my dear, look stunning. Tell Malcolm everything. Eating that gorgeous man must have suited."

"I did not so much as eat him as sample him," I managed to say through my smile. "Oh, Malcolm, he was divine."

"Ah. Then, he satisfied all your appetites, did he?" Malcolm shot me a knowing glance. "I believe you may have a pet, Lorena."

"Have you ever turned anyone?" I asked from real curiosity.

"No. I'm too young, as you know. I'd make a mess of things if I tried," he waved his hand but then looked thoughtful.

"Are you considering turning the man?"

"Yes," I immediately replied. "I have never turned a human, but the memory of my own making is very clear. It should not be difficult."

"Are you quite sure, my dear? It is something that should not be attempted on a whim. Being saddled with a new born does not bring out the best in every maker, you know," he chided.

"You must have been quite the monster," I teased.

Malcolm did not respond to my unstated question about his maker or his or her whereabouts, but I long ago resolved that it was none of my business.

"Why would you turn someone you barely know? You are creating an immortal. Perhaps you should not be hasty."

"Malcolm, I cannot explain it," I shook my head, "but I swear to you that I feel very much as though I do know him. I understand him. It is as though," I struggled for words, "it is as though I have always known him." My words, although true, could not adequately capture the feeling.

I looked at Malcolm, grasping for words, but none escaped.

"I can see that perhaps you have fallen in love," Malcolm gently said. "It is not an emotion that has ever captured me, so I cannot appreciate your position, but I recognize the symptoms."

"We would have to move, you understand," I went on, " Jacques is too well known for us to remain in Paris. However, I want your blessing. Would you stay with us, or would you prefer to stay in Paris?"

"I shouldn't want to be parted from you, even with a lover by your side," he said.

I smiled. It was precisely the answer I wanted.

***

The horses hooves slowed as the barouche approached the address on the Rue St. Germaine which Jacques gave me. As I looked at the large, grey townhouse, a giddiness wracked my body. I felt the nervous energy known by anyone who understands that their life will forever change.

When my driver left, impatience caused me to flash up the stairs to knock on the door. Only the mandate that I must be invited into a home prevented me from taking the door off its hinges and marching into the arms of the man I loved.

A squat, middle aged housekeeper with red rimmed eyes answered the door. "Good evening," I started, "my name is Lorena Boucher. Monsieur Bourbeau is expecting me."

The servant burst into tears. "Oh, Mademoiselle, they got him, they got him...," she wailed.

"I do not understand your meaning. Who is 'they'?" I asked bewildered.

"The Committee came for him this afternoon," she sobbed, "it was none other than Bertrand himself."

Marcel Bertrand was a prominent member of the Committee for Public Safety who enjoyed sullying his hands for Robespierre. 'Bertrand the Butcher' was his nickname, and he enjoyed his work as much as Malcolm enjoyed playing with his prey.

It was as though ice flowed through my veins. "Are you sure, are you quite sure it was Bertrand?" I looked at the servant and glamoured her for more accurate information.

"Yes, Mademoiselle," her voice calmed considerably, "I was here and opened the door myself for the gentleman. And I recognized him, too, but then again, who wouldn't? He is a famous man."

"What time did Bertrand arrive?" I asked.

"It was 3:00 o'clock this afternoon. I was preparing the house for your arrival," she added.

"You will go into the house," I commanded, "and you will not recall my visit."

Five hours, I pondered. Jacques was taken five hours ago. He could still be alive. Panic gripped me as I realized that I did not know where the Committee for Public Safety took people for torture. However, I had to do something and would glamour Robespierre himself if need be. I glanced around and saw no humans and flashed to a familiar place in seconds.

As I descended the slick damp stairs, I smelled the familiar stench of mildew and blood. If my heart could beat, the sound would have echoed off the brick. And then, I saw him: my Jacques, crumpled to the ground, his beautiful face mutilated beyond recognition. My legs gave way as I fell beside him, hearing an agonizing scream reverberate through the catacombs. It took me a moment to understand the scream was my own. The shock gave way to grief, a grief more powerful than any I had known. "No," I sobbed, "no! Not Jacques." And my body was tormented by sobs. Bloody tears flowed down my cheeks.

How long I held and rocked his dead body, I cannot say. The tears would not end, the misery compounded with each moment his loss became more real. Time lost all meaning and I felt something in me harden. Slowly, slowly, I felt vestiges of my humanity, the humanity I felt with Jacques, slip away, evaporate in the cool dampness of the catacombs. The predator in me made her appearance and she struggled for dominance in my mind.

Finally, I sat with his body in my arms, exhausted, my head heavy and diffuse. To lose him was as unbearable as it was unfair. How I wished to rail against the God who abandoned me in that forest years ago, the same God who would deny me the man who could have eased my suffering in this life. I hated God. I hated man. It seemed as the world was painted red by my hatred. I looked down at my love cradled in my arms, I could think of only one way for him to continue to be with me. After tilting his head away from me, my fangs penetrated his cool flesh and I drank until the blood was gone.

***

Marcel Bertrand walked, unsteadily, out of "Les Halles" restaurant about 10:00 o'clock p.m. the following evening. It was a simple matter to glamour his servants into revealing his daily routine. After torturing and killing any number of victims on any given evening, Bertrand gorged himself on good food and fine wine, even while the peasants he claimed to care about starved. He enjoyed the short walk from his favorite restaurant through the Luxembourg Gardens to his home. No one dared disturb the butcher.

"Good evening," Malcolm said as he stepped out of the shadows.

Bertrand focused his small back eyes on Malcolm and rested both hands on his wooden cane. Although a middle aged, hawkish looking man, Bertrand needed the assistance of a cane due to some injury to his right leg. The butcher, apparently, was lame.

"Pardon, Monsieur," Bertrand slurred, "I do not believe that I know you. You must excuse me, for I am expected home."

"Oh, but Monsieur, I know you. Everyone knows the butcher," Malcolm's eyes crinkled with glee. "And, I believe that you know a friend of ours," Malcolm lifted his head in my direction, "his name is Jacques Bourbeau."

Bertrand's black eyes narrowed into slits and he snarled at Malcolm. "You walk on dangerous ground, Monsieur. Are you so willing to join your friend?"

Malcolm laughed and turned to me, "Lorena, darling, I do believe this mortal is threatening me."

I tilted my head at the lame man curiously and spoke to Malcolm, never taking my eyes off of Bertrand. "Not very smart, in the end, to threaten Malcolm."

My voice turned to my friend. "He has no idea how big a mistake it is to threaten you, does he?" I walked over and touched Bertrand's face with my hand. He blanched at my cool touch.

"I can have you both killed with the snap of my fingers," the lame man spat.

Malcolm flashed to Bertrand and grabbed him by the shoulders. The human was mystified by Malcolm's speed and strength. "Now, Monsieur Bertrand, the only one who is dying tonight is you. Isn't that right my dear?" Malcolm turned to me.

"You see, I am going to kill you myself. It will be a long and painful death, far more painful than any death that you could dream up. Do you recall the Marquis de Sade? Oh, of course you do. He was a very particular friend of mine. He passed onto me certain techniques that you will soon be acquainted with, techniques sure to impress the likes of you."

Relishing the moment, I looked at Bertreand squarely in the eyes. "You will make no sound, do you understand? You will not speak, and you will not scream. You will find that you cannot. However, you will feel all the pain we are about to inflict, and you will feel it acutely," I purred, and then I handed Malcolm my beaded bag.

***


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: This is latbfan. *waves* I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Three

The rain patters noisily on the leaves above me as I walk through the woods. Its staccato rhythms are as soothing as the warm droplets that fall onto my hair and run down my face. The night is alive and fragrant, and being in it is the one thing that's able to calm me, that's always been comforting even in my most troubled times. I live for moments like this, if my existence is living at all, when I feel like I'm still part of the whole, rather than something outside the laws that govern the rest of nature. It's times like this when it's as if God has not forgotten me.

***

"This is my sister," Malcolm said as he entered my bedchamber. "The one I was telling you about. She's been unwell, but I've no doubt you'll cheer her immensely." He led two humans, a man and a woman, young and well-dressed and beautiful, both with dull expressions from his glamour.

"Malcolm, not tonight," I said. I sighed and looked away, feeling guilty because it was obvious that he'd outdone himself finding such prizes.

"Lorena, darling, you have to feed. It's been days."

"I'm fine."

"You're weak. You haven't dressed or left your room in over a week. The woman, especially, smells particularly sweet, but I brought a boy too, in case you were in that kind of mood. We can share, or you can have both, and I'll fetch someone else for myself later."

"Malcolm," I said, kissing his fingers. "You are too good to me. But really, not now." He furrowed his brow before leading the two from my room. I heard him next door in his bedchamber, tucking them into bed and glamouring them to sleep.

"I know you miss him," he quietly said when he came back in and crawled into bed next to me. "I won't insult you by pretending to understand, but you can't go on like this forever."

"Maybe I can," I sigh. "I don't know what our limitations are, and you are even less knowledgeable than I. You didn't even know how to glamour when I met you…"

"Lorena," he began.

"I'm going to New Orleans," I interrupted.

"What?" he said, sitting up.

"I think it's best to leave from England. Their ships are so much better than anyone else's. I need to get out of Paris."

"Lorena," he said. "You can't be serious."

"Why can't I?" I demanded, swaying slightly as I stood too quickly.

"Well," he said. "Because Paris is our home." He looked very young as he stared at me. "The journey across the sea takes weeks. How will we survive it? What will be waiting for us when we arrive in America?"

"You are simply too lazy to learn English," I said. "And you're afraid; you've never left France." Malcolm glared at me, and I turned away. "I refuse to stay here," I said more quietly. "I can't. First the Queen, and then Jacques…" I swallowed several times, refusing to shed another tear. "I need to leave."

"I understand Jacques," he said. "But what do you care about the Queen? What's another human turned bloody mess and then to dust?"

I sighed. "She's my sister," I said, saying it out loud for the first time.

Malcolm snorted. "That's absurd."

"My half-sister," I corrected.

"Lorena," he said, taking my hands in his. "You really need to feed."

"I am not going crazy!" I shouted, snatching my hand from his grasp. "My father was the Emperor of Austria, and my mother one of his wife's ladies." I bit down on my tongue, tasting blood. "She used to tell me about her, the princess, before she left for France. She was only a few years older than I. After I parted from my Maker, I returned to Vienna to find my mother, only she was already dead. It was then that I came to Paris, knowing the Queen was my father's daughter."

Malcolm stared at me, and for several long moments, there was only the quiet breathing and heartbeats from the humans in his room. "You're quite serious, then?"

"Yes."

"What did you hope to achieve by coming here? Did she know who you were?"

I shook my head. "I waited too long… I just wanted to be near someone who was my family."

Malcolm pulled me into his chest and kissed the top of my head. "You're the one who told me to think of the humans as prey, to remember that we are hunters. We are different; we are separate. You're the one who taught me everything that I know. Do I need to remind you of your own lessons? You are my family, and I am yours, and there is no one else."

I reached up on tiptoes to kiss each of his cheeks. "I know, my sweet. But still, it's time for us to move on."

Malcolm sighed impatiently. "Why? I like it here."

"People will grow suspicious," I pointed out. "We cannot stay in any one place for too long."

Malcolm waved his hand lazily as he flopped back onto my bed. "Everyone lives in constant fear for their lives. No one pays attention to anyone else."

"Do you want to be killed before your human life would've been over?" I asked. "Do you want someone to suspect, to come for us during the day when we are defenseless?" Malcolm shook his head. "Well, I'm telling you, I'm going to New Orleans. It's still under the rule of the Spanish, but most of the residents are French. If the stories are true, it's vibrant and exciting, with little in the way of authority. All the fevers and plagues will make it easy to feed. It sounds perfect. You are more than welcome to accompany me if you like."

"You'll do this without me? You'd leave me to fend for myself?"

I nodded. "I would."

Malcolm sized me up, and I stood unflinching under his scrutiny. "Fine," he finally said. "But you can make all the arrangements. Planning is so tedious."

I nodded. "Good. We leave for London first thing tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? We're leaving tomorrow?"

"We'll drain the servants when we rise, and then we'll leave," I said.

"Lorena…"

"No need to pack anything. We'll get what we need in London. I expect we'll remain there for a month, maybe two. We'll sail to New York first, and stay there for a month or two, and then onto New Orleans."

"Wait a minute," he began again.

"You said that I should do the planning."

"Well, yes, but..." He sighed and shook his head. "I didn't mean for us to leave so soon."

"Is there point to waiting?"

Malcolm sighed again. "I suppose not." He moved towards the door, and I flashed over to stop him, raising his hand to my lips. "Trust me," I said. "I will not let harm come to you."

"I trust you," he said.

"Thank you."

"Want to repay me?" he teased, a devilish gleam making his dark eyes twinkle. Before I could answer, he pulled me next door. There, on his bed, the two humans slept curled against each other like children. "Are they not beautiful?" he whispered, his tongue flicking against my ear. "Do they not smell delectable? Play with me. Promise me some fun before this death-wish journey of yours."

I smiled. "Did you have something in mind?"

Malcolm threw back his head and laughed. "Always," he said. "And since we're leaving, I needn't clean up after myself…" His voice trailed off as his fangs slid out.

***

His scent is what first alerts me of his presence. Even with the rain washing away much of the odor, he'd stopped against the tree here, maybe during the worst of the downpour. I rub my nose along the rough bark and lick the air, capturing the fragile taste of him. Like most humans I've seen lately, he's filthy. The scent is sweaty and tainted with cheap corn liquor and grease… And blood. There is the slightest hint of blood that is not his own.

I can't help but smile as I silently follow his trail until I can hear him. His heart beats and labored breathing are clear as he curses under his breath and hacks through the wet vegetation. I circle around and place myself in his path, careful to make noise and move like a human.

It's easy to discern when he's spotted me. His heart thumps wildly, and he chuckles quietly to himself, just a low noise a human wouldn't be able to hear. I pretend like I don't know he's aware of me and continue on my walk, allowing him to speak first. Even before he approaches, I know he is not a worthy companion. This is not a man I will have to tempt to see if he cares for an unknown woman's virtue, which is just as well because it's been several days since I last fed.

He stalks me, circling around as I had done to him. Oh yes, this man is a predator, too. Neither a very good one, nor one for much longer, as he's already made the critical error of not fully assessing his victim. To his eye, I must look like a young woman in the woods, walking in a wet dress, unarmed and without an escort. Someone wiser would question why I was here and why I was alone; he should fear the unknown, but like so many humans, he is obviously without imagination.

"Good evening, little lady," he says in a low voice from just over my shoulder. I jump as if startled, and he chuckles. "You should be mindful of things that bump in the dark."

"Good evening, sir," I answer in a small voice, bowing respectfully.

"You lost?"

I shake my head. "No, sir. I live nearby and know these woods well."

He knowingly nods. "Live alone, do you? Waiting for your man?"

I shake my head again and visibly swallow, making certain he can see me in dark. "No," I say with a slight tremor, as if I'm unaccustomed to lying. "I'm not alone." One doesn't need special senses to see the greedy look in his face or the flash of tongue as he licks his lips. "My…" I swallow. "My husband is just over there. He's walking with me. He'll be here in a moment."

He nods again, taking a step closer, his hand hidden in the front of his shirt, no doubt holding a knife. "Of course he is. Perhaps you would take pity on a poor soldier trying to get home?" He is not a poor soldier. He is far too well-fed to be part of either army, and his clothes, while filthy, are too new to belong to a soldier.

"Of course," I say, smiling and pretending as if my guard is down. "It's such a relief to know you're not one of the Yankees."

"Thieves and scoundrels, all," he agrees.

I demurely look down, and that is when he strikes, rushing me and forcing me to the ground. I allow him to mangle my dress and roughly grope me, his foul breath hot on my face as he thrusts his tongue into my mouth. He holds his knife to my throat and laughs as he hovers over me, unlacing his pants with the other hand.

"Where is that husband of yours now?" he taunts. "If you holler, will he hear you and come?" I wait until his pants are pushed down to his knees, when he leans back to cut my long skirt, before flashing up, easily lifting him and pining him to the trunk of a tree. "What the hell?" he mutters before my hand tightens on his throat, cutting off his air. His feet dangle as I hold him off the ground, and he whimpers and struggles to get away.

"Who will hear you if I allow you to scream?" I quietly ask him. "More importantly, who will care?" I lower his feet so that he's able to stand on tiptoes, and I loosen my grip so that he gasps in a shaking breath. I will not kill this one quickly, and tears stream down his dirty cheeks.

"I didn't mean no harm," he whispers.

"We both know that's a lie," I say.

"What are you?" he asks.

"I am repayment for all the women you so cruelly abused in your worthless existence. I am but a taste of the punishment I hope you receive at God's hands for what you've done."

"I can pay," he says. "I've gold and cash and jewelry."

"Oh, you will pay," I agree. "But I'm not interested in your money."

He's frantic, once more struggling and spitting and clawing me, trying in vain to escape. His eyes have gotten wide and frightened, and I only watch, mildly interested, as he pleas for mercy and release.

Finally, after many long and tedious minutes, he goes limp in my grasp and only whimpers quietly. I let him drop unceremoniously to the ground, curious to see if he's foolish enough to try and escape. He lays slumped on the wet dirt for a moment before leaping to his feet, pushing past me, and fleeing into the night. I laugh and slowly count to ten, loudly enough for him to hear. "Come out, come out, where ever you are..." I call into the woods before I flash after him. It only takes seconds before I once more have him pinned.

"Unfortunately," I tell him. "The human body can only tolerate so much pain and blood loss before it looses consciousness. Did you know that?" Once more, the man struggles to escape, but I ignore his futile efforts. "The mind will shut down long before the body gives out. Some minds are stronger than others and resist, but something tells me that yours is not one of them. You are a coward, and no doubt you will die a coward's death. I'm sure it won't take long at all for you to beg and cry."

"Please," he murmurs. "Please, just kill me… Please…"

"See, I haven't even started, and you're already begging. Not to worry," I say as I pat his face affectionately. "I will kill you," I smile. "And luckily for you, I'm hungry. But first, I think we should play a little game. I like games."

"A game?" he asks.

"Yes," I say. "Do you like games?"

I watch as he struggles to see where this line of questions is going. "I do well at cards," he finally stammers.

I smile. "As do I, something else we have in common. But I was thinking of a less genteel pastime. We'll call it, 'Things that Bump in the Dark.' You see, I am one of those things, so I know that game well."

***

Malcolm balked the next night when I informed him that we would be swimming the English Channel. We were flushed and rosy from our servants' blood, their bodies left drained and mangled beyond recognition along with the decomposing bodies of Malcolm's treats from the previous night. When I pointed out that he could sink to the bottom and walk across if he preferred, he'd laughed with delight and immediately plunged into the rough water and disappeared from view. For quite a while, he amused himself walking along the bottom before resurfacing and catching up with me, complaining that it was dark and boring under water.

We announced our temporary presence to the vampire King in charge of London and set up an inexpensive residence. After six weeks of careful theft, including convincing several unscrupulous men to hand over their ill-gotten property and treasure, we'd amassed a fortune of our own, most of which I left with a London investor. Once again, Malcolm had objected, but when I told him he was free to do with his share as he wished, but I was investing mine, he quietly went along. I would never be immortal and poor, and while Malcolm didn't realize it, I had investments in various locations around Europe, including several caches with gold and jewels in places impossible for a human to reach.

The trip to New York was uneventful and less tedious than we'd feared. Malcolm was resentful of our cover story because he didn't like the fact that he had to be the one who suffered migraines and a delicate disposition that required a special diet and demanded him to stay out of the sun and sleep during the day, but I'd learned from experience that if I were the ill party, people still expected to see Malcolm out and about. If he were unwell, no one questioned my daytime absence. It was easy enough to have our humans stand watch, and we glamoured everyone on board the first night so that they were without curiosity or interest in our daytime whereabouts and activities.

Malcolm and I spent the days together, locked inside a large trunk in our tiny room, which was a tight fit at best. Our human servants were two large couples, all of whom desired passage to the new United States and were content to not ask too many questions.

Even with four large servants to feed from, Malcolm and I played with the crew. The men were especially willing with me, and we didn't even have to glamour them into allowing Malcolm to watch, as he so loved to do. I quickly learned that I was not the only woman on board, that the Royal Navy was famous for keeping women for the officers, and Malcolm happily engaged them as well as the male crew. There was one unfortunate incident, but I tossed the body overboard, and no one suspected us, simply assumed that the man had been drunk and careless.

The night before we were to sail into New York Harbor, while Malcolm systematically erased the memories of everyone on our ship, one of the girls, Elizabeth, who'd taken a liking to me, played cards with me on deck. I'd immediately claimed her as mine for the duration of the voyage, and she was very young, naturally bright, and uncommonly pretty, and her blood was untainted from drink or disease.

"I've never met a lady like you before," she finally said.

I smiled. "I am no lady."

"You are!" Elizabeth insisted. "They usually think very little of me, but you and your brother have been so kind. I'll be sad to part..." Her voice trailed off as she sniffled back a tear.

I handed her one of my fine linen handkerchiefs, careful to make sure my cool skin didn't touch hers, and politely watched the stars while she composed herself. "How did you come to this profession?" I gently inquired.

She swallowed several times before speaking. "After my da passed, there were too many of us for my ma to feed." I nodded for her to continue. "I took a job as a serving girl at one of the taverns on the waterfront. No one else would hire me, and we needed the money. One night, one of the men… He…" Once again, the girl broke down, and I tried not to think of Emilio and failed. "I didn't want my ma to suffer the shame. I wanted her to be able to go to church and marry my little sisters, so I took the first job that would get me away from home."

"Do you care for this life?" I finally asked after she'd played her card.

Elizabeth shrugged. "It's what I do. The men are nice enough, and I don't mind the sea. It makes some people sick, but not me. It wasn't what I'd wanted, but I have to make my own way."

I nodded. "Would you like to do something else?"

"Oh, Miss Lorena, I couldn't. I'm ruined now."

I shook my head. "What has happened is no fault of yours, and no one need know what you've been doing. What if, when the ship docks, instead of going into New York for supplies and reboarding, you simply stayed there?"

"I couldn't, Miss Lorena," she said. "I'm a servant to the ship, and I've no means to make my way in New York."

I took her hand into mine and carefully squeezed it. "Elizabeth, listen to me. You are bright and pretty and more than capable."

"Miss Lorena!" she exclaimed. "I've kept you on deck too long, and you've taken a chill." She rubbed my hands between her own. "Let's go below."

"I'm fine," I insisted, pulling my hand away from hers. "If I make things right with the captain," I continued. "If he releases you, will you stay in New York? Will you find a nice man who loves you and will marry you?"

"The captain will not let me go," she sadly insisted in a defeated voice. "This is only my second voyage, but he's made it clear that I'm his favorite."

"Malcolm and I can be very convincing," I smiled. "He will."

"No man will want me. No family will have me."

"You are not ruined," I told her. "You've done what you've had to do. There is no shame in that. And in a new country, there's no need to tell people. Men outnumber women, so there will be plenty to choose from. If anyone asks, tell them a partial truth: that your father tragically died, you inherited a small sum, and you came to make your fortune. Say that you journeyed here with two patrons as your chaperons."

"But that's simply not true," she said.

I waved my hand to dismiss her concerns. "It can be. Malcolm and I will be in New York for a couple of months, getting our affairs in order before we complete our journey, and we will happily keep you with us until you can make other arrangements. Malcolm will say that you're his ward. We will vouch for you."

She stared at me with wide eyes. "Why would you do that for me? Who am I to a fine lady like you and a gentleman like Mr. Malcolm?"

"We are all God's children," I told her. "And I've watched you, when you didn't realize I was paying attention. You're an unusually good person, and it would be my pleasure to find you a more happy situation and not leave you at the mercy of cruel men." I squeezed her fingers. "I understand," I knowingly said, nodding to her as her eyes widened as she took in my meaning. "I would like to help you as I would've wanted someone to help me, if it had not been too late."

She swallowed and once more tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. "How can you say that it's too late for you?"

I smiled. "It's far, far too late for me, but it doesn't have to be for you. Would you like to stay with us?"

"I would like that," she finally said. "I would like that very much." She threw herself into my arms, and if I had been human, she would've knocked me over.

I smiled as I stroked her hair. "Very good. With my poor brother's delicate condition, it would be useful to have someone such as yourself to conduct business during the day, and in the evenings, we will find you a worthy husband."

"What can I do to repay this kindness?" she whispered into my bodice.

"Live a long, happy life," I whispered, blinking back tears of my own, knowing that I would give myself away if they were to fall. "Love a good man, and be loved by him in return. Have children and watch them grow. Age with grace and dignity, and when your time comes, many many years from now, die with honor and without fear, with a clear conscience, knowing that God waits for you with open arms."

She nodded. "I will," she fiercely whispered. "And I'll never forget this kindness, and I'll repay it in kind when the opportunities to do so arise, and I'll remember you always in my prayers."

"Am I interrupting something?" Malcolm asked as he crossed the deck. Elizabeth quickly wiped her face and returned to her place, bowing deferentially, as Malcolm made her nervous.

"Good evening, sir."

"Malcolm," I said, reaching my hand to his, noticing the heavy purse of coins in his hand. In addition to making the sailors conveniently forget us as soon as we disembarked, he also took back all the money he'd lost at cards during the voyage, and then some. "I've been discussing my plan with Elizabeth. She is most amiable to it."

"Excellent," Malcolm smiled at her. She didn't know him well enough to recognize the slight sneer to his tone, but he'd already told me he didn't care to help any human, and he didn't understand why I was interested in the girl if I didn't intend to keep her as a pet or servant. I'd explained why we couldn't take her with us to New Orleans, as I had no intentions of glamouring her again or killing her. It was best for us to part quickly.

"All will be as I wish," I said in a firm tone, shooting him a warning look. "Please go and speak with the captain for me."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note, from Nipsu: The character of Queen Sophie-Anne is borrowed from the books, while the so much of Lorena is borrowed from Trueblood. I hope that this is not too confusing or frustrating for everyone. Again, thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read and comment upon our stories. Enjoy

The sky was lavender. I was always able to rise before others of my kind and for the last seven years, I used my time alone at sunset to enjoy the peculiar color of the sky in New Orleans at sunset. A wind rustled green, lacy Spanish moss dripping from the live oak tree in our backyard while the horizon turned sapphire.

***

We arrived in New Orleans in 1796 and it took us only a matter of days to purchase this one story, white clapboard house a few miles from the center of the city. The house was purchased from a Frenchman who had, at one time, owned a sugar plantation in Haiti. Although there were houses around us, ours sat at the center of two acres of land. A covered porch ran the length of the front of the house as well as another running the length of the back of the house. It was raised about five feet from the ground, a precaution against flooding, and had clapboard skirting which created a nice crawl space for our daytime slumber.

Seven years, we had been in this New World wilderness for seven years. My sister's death in Paris caused me grief, although I cared not a fig for her foolish, foppish husband who preceded her in death. When Jacques died, living in Paris became insupportable and I set my sights on New Orleans. The Revolution and famine had bankrupted France and I was tired of petty theft and glamour to make my way. New Orleans was situated so as to be the major trading port for the South, and the Spanish, who had run this city for the last thirty years, had just opened up trade with the United States. The sugar trade was about to explode and Malcolm and I, and through us the Queen, were about to make our fortune even larger.

The Queen had summoned us not a week after our arrival. We were escorted to her residence in the city by her two, hulking Saxon children, as strong as oxen. Despite their size, they silently slid through the cobbled streets of this city of 10,000 souls, past all of the new brick buildings which arose from the ashes of two great fires which destroyed the old, wooden French town. The city was now Spanish: brick and wrought iron, cobbles and courtyards.

Her house was anonymous on the outside, but beautifully furnished in the French style on the inside. Not a drawing room in Paris could claim more sumptuous appointments. Polished brick floors were draped with lush Turkish rugs, their reddish color mirroring the brick. The couches were covered in midnight blue silk. Everywhere my eye looked, mementos from centuries past sat like museum pieces, strategically positioned and showed off to their full effect. Almost a hundred wax candles washed the room in a soft, yellow glow.

When we were ushered into her room, I saw a petit, oval faced woman with exquisite, child-like features. Her skin was pale and as translucent as onion skin, a sure sign of her age, but a quality unnoticeable to humans. She smiled slightly as she welcomed us into her territory, explaining the terms of the fealty we owed her. A boy of not more than fifteen kept a discreet distance behind her. A glance at his calculating face told me that this boy was more a more fearsome bodyguard than the Saxon, muscle bound brothers.

"I am Sophie-Anne," she began, "and this is Andre" She pointed to the lethal boy behind her.

She explained how much money we would pay her from the proceeds of our trade. She explained that we were forbidden to hunt within the area of the city. She explained that we were not to feed from slaves at near by plantations since these creatures were valuable property to their wealthy owners, people useful with her business. She gave us leave to take our pickings from Indian tribes in her territory which covered not only Louisiana, but lands way to the north. And, of course, we were welcomed to feed upon the riff-raff at the docks. They were a nuisance to both vampire and human.

"You are no in Paris where dead bodies are common place. The human population is small," the Queen said in her little girl voice, "and we must be careful not to arouse suspicion. In return for your compliance, we offer sanctuary. You are both young, very young and without makers. You have much to learn and you are vulnerable without our protection."

Malcolm looked at the Queen and Andre with awe. He was only five years old and had never been in the presence of such old and powerful vampires. Unexpectedly, he spoke,"what about the victims of plague and malaria? Are we free to drain them?"

"Not within the city," Andre spoke for the fist time, "but any body outside the city that is left without burial is considered leftovers."

***

I heard Margritte's footsteps over hard wood floors and the door creaked open.

"Mademoiselle," she spoke with her eyes cast down, "my chores are done. May I retire to my room?"

"Of course," and I waved my had to dismiss he. We purchased Margritte with the house, She was now 21 years old, her grandmother a house slave at a Haitian plantation, raped by her owner and giving birth to her mulatto mother. Margritte's own mother was raped by a French trapper in New Orleans, which made her the multi-generational product of human lust and power. I understood Margritte. She was treated with an even hand at our house, more than she could say about her bondage with humans, and in return, she gave me unconditional loyalty. She hardly needed glamour.

Malcolm materialized when I walked into the house."What is on the agenda tonight, my dear?" He was in a perpetual state of amusement.

"Before supper, we need to discuss our business," I reminded him.

"Oh, Lorena, you do know how tedious such talk is when I have only just awakened, don't you?"

"We have been through this before. I would be delighted to deliver instructions to our agents, to regulate, to bargain, to enter into contracts. However, as we both fully well know, I am a woman and as such, cannot move around in a man's world of business. You are the public face of our business dealings."

Although my voice was sweet, my resentment towards humans was mounting, simmering underneath my skin. My sex mattered not in my new life, except when I dealt with humans. I had choices in my life that were not limited to marriage to a wealthy man who expected a baby each and the convent. Our kind could not give actual birth and men and women were equal under our laws. It was empowering.

A soft knock at the door caused our heads to flash in its direction simultaneously. Margritte heard the sound and flitted quietly to the door to greet our visitors. She ushered them into the drawing room.

"Monsieur Sigebert and Wybert," she announced.

"You are dismissed, Margritte," I responded although my wishes were her own. The giant, bearded Saxons gave her pause.

"The Queen requires an audience with you both," Sigebert said with his strange, guttural accent. As German was n first language, I once tried to engage the brothers in their native, dead tongue. Many vampires, myself included, find great facility with language, a side effect of the turning. I spoke many languages without a trace of an accent. Sigebert and Wybert were in the minority, their terrible English was surpassed only by their halting French. It was merciful that they were in the Queen's service and not required to blend with contemporary society.

***

""Malcolm, you services are required in St. Louis," Sophie-Anne said as Andre kept vigil behind her, his pointed, adolescent face set in a mask of stone.

"Of course," Malcolm answered dutifully, "what exactly do you require of me?" Although irreverent and fearless, Malcolm seemed to have a healthy respect for both the Queen and her ancient consort.

"You are to negotiate some contracts for me, with humans, of course. I have been impressed with your ability to act as Lorena's representative. Glamour if you have to, but Andre will fill you in on the particulars. You are to leave immediately. Go to ground if you do not reach St. Louis by daybreak. Tomorrow evening, you are to meet with cotton merchants."

Malcolm nodded to the Queen and looked at Andre who motioned him to leave and retire to an adjacent room.

"Lorena," the Queen turned her attention to me once Malcolm left.

"Yes, your majesty."

"It is time you left New Orleans," she commanded.

"Your majesty," I stammered, "have I done something to displease you?" I canned my mind for some breach of etiquette, some reason I should be cast aside.

"On the contrary," the Queen said, "you have been an ideal subject: you pay suitable tribute and follow my orders. No, I am quite pleased. I simply require your services elsewhere."

"I am at your majesty's service," I said.

"It is time child, to move. You have been here for more than seven years now, and do not age. You look as youthful as the day you arrived. You have been careful, for sure, but your beauty is memorable to humans. People regard beauty. You moved here from Paris, did you not?"

"Yes, your majesty," I replied.

"Your Spanish is flawless. can you master a French country accent?" she asked.

"I believe so," I responded.

"You speak English I recall. Could you master an American southern accent?" she questioned.

"Yes, without much effort."

"You see," the Queen started, "I have need for you in Baton Rouge. The area is very French, settled over a hundred years ago by France. In the last fifty years, a great many Acadians flocked to Baton Rouge because of the Le Grand Derangement: the British expelled the French from Canadian territories. Their language," she sniffed, "is French, but of course, their accent is vulgar. You are to blend in as an Acadian lady and Malcolm an Acadian gentleman of means. You will oversee my interests in Baton Rouge, but have leave to look over your interests here, too."

"Is not Baton Rouge under Spanish control?" I asked.

"Not for long," she spoke and I detected the barest hint of a smile upon her lips. "The Spanish have secretly sold New Orleans back to the French along with most of my territories to the north. However, my sources, who are quite reliable, tell me that my territory is soon to be purchased by the United States. Not, Baton Rouge, it remains under Spanish control, but that is temporary. These Americans, they are greedy and will not allow a small Spanish colony to remain which is in all ways surrounded by their land. My interests need to be protected and well established before the Americans take Baton Rouge. You and Malcolm are to to develop closer ties with American merchants on my behalf."

"Why do we present ourselves as Acadians?" I was truly curious. Besides, my dark hair and eyes made it easy to pass as Spanish.

"Because when the Americans invade or purchase Baton Rouge, they will naturally ally with the Acadians who detest the Spanish. Spanish merchants, however, will not fare well. You will go and strengthen our ties to the Americans."

***

The cobblestones in the city glistened with misty rain in the glow of shop lights. I would soon be leaving this city, transplanted once again, but the move would not be far ad I would retain my servants, my Magritte. I would send my butler, Thomas, to Baton Rouge shortly to search for suitable lodgings.

Muffled sobbing caught my attention and I followed the sound until I reached a small alley near the Plaza d' Armas, in which St. Louis Cathedral sat. I could smell alcohol as I silently rounded the corner and heard the chuckle of human malevolence. A Spanish soldier, his knife at a young girl's throat, was removing her heavy woolen garments. As I silently approached, I could plainly see se was a nun, possibly a novice.

"Good evening, soldier," I remarked, not two feet from the unsuspecting man.

He glared at me and was about to utter something until I caught his gaze.

"You are to move directly to the river," i pointed in the direction of the Mississippi, "and you shall wait for me. Do you understand?"

"Yes," the soldier nodded as he dropped his knife and began walking. When he was out of sight, the young girl dropped to the ground and began to sob, picking up her garments and redressing.

"You should not be out after dark," I chided, "are you alright?"

"Yes, yes," the girl stuttered, "I am in your debt," she managed between sniffles.

"Is your convent close by? I will accompany you back."

"It is right around the corner, near the Cathedral," she gasped. "Oh, you saved my life. What will Mother Superior say? She shall be cross. But you, how did you make him go away? You are an angle blessed by God."

Her words sent ice through my veins. "God has abandoned me," I felt my anger mount, "I have no God."

"No," she shook her head in disbelief, "no, you are good. You saved me. Every living creature is a child of God, whether good or bad. Even that soldier is a child of God."

"You do not know of what you speak," I said evenly.

"Oh, but I do I have given my life to God and he has protected me. He has sent you to protect me," she replied.

As my anger mounted, thirst burned in the back of my throat, and I smelled the sweetness of this child's blood. "I am not sent by God. Although I used to believe, as you do now, but God as foresaked me, completely and utterly." My mind wanted back to that night in the forest, the night my all consuming love for God became as shattered as my human body. Of this I was sure: I was no longer a living creature, no longer part of the living world. My heart did not beat and my soul was forfeit, and the God I loved had allowed my death and unholy rebirth the night I was pledged to him in undying love. God cast me out from his kingdom when it was the only place that I ever wanted to be. He even saw fit to take the one man I loved, the one man who could redeem me in this afterlife, and his complete rejection stung. I was even outside of nature. Did not the crickets stop their song when I approached, did the night creatures not scamper at my nearness? Everything that I had loved now completely shut me out.

The girl stood up and wiped her eyes, composure starting to take her over. "I will pray for you, and for your soul, and I will be forever grateful for your kindness."

"Save your prayers," I sighed, "for those that need them. Come let me walk you to your lodgings."

When we approached the convent, my thirst was unbearable and my emotions were wild with resentment and sadness.

"Bless you, my angel," the girl said as she let herself through the heavy wooden doors and slipped into safety. She was oblivious to the fact that I was an even greater danger to her as the soldier.

***

The soldier waited for me dutifully by the banks of the river. I could hear the soft thudding of his heart as my fangs clicked into place. His heart was slow and even and my hunger was insurmountable. He turned to greet me and even in the dark, I could see the pulse in his neck, calling me forth.

My fangs sank into the soft flesh at his neck as his blood began to flow into my mouth. Immediately, the flavor sent my head spinning and I was transported away from the misery. Nothing mattered except the fragrant, salty blood pulsing into my mouth and everything else, all misery, all anger, all frustration was gone, gone as the blood was front and center, consuming my mind like fire consuming tinder. The blood created exquisite ecstasy, even joy and I could focus on nothing else.

His heartbeat grew threadier and his body became more slack. I lowered him to the ground and let gravity push blood into my gullet, until I could feel his death approaching. When his pulse eased, I sucked the last drops of fluid from him, still jittery and intoxicated from the kill. I weighed his clothes down with stone and threw his body into the wide, black, swift moving river.


End file.
